


Awesome Shit

by epicionly



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Character Study, Introspection, pre-Academy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:56:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epicionly/pseuds/epicionly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since day one, Jim Kirk was pretty much the shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awesome Shit

**Author's Note:**

> An introspection/character study of Jim pre-Academy. Give it a chance?
> 
> Disclaimer: Don't own anything, which kind of sucks, but then I'd have to fight with people to get it. Obviously I'd lose miserably.

 

Since day one, Jim Kirk was pretty much the  _shit._  These days? Kind of hard to figure himself out, but he'll still be glad to give unique a whirl.

Jim is unique even before he gets it in his mind that Starfleet is the farthest thing from what he wants, and that freedom to do whatever the hell he wants is a lot more preferable to being restricted behind regulations, uniforms, and ranks--even if that kind of opinion isn't really unique. He's a social kind of guy, has all sorts of friends up and down, and it really doesn't matter to him what people think of him. Whether you like it or not, he's going to do things his way, and he's going to be  _damned_ if someone tells him what to do or how to think.

It's not really surprising to him that he has a history of doing the complete opposite of what people tell him to do. Maybe it's the thought that he'd like to be his own person once in a while that explains it, but Jim's never been into the self-analyzing thing. These days, all he knows is that it kind of sucks that spending time in a jail cell is kind of getting old. It also isn't the best feeling, when he's being bailed out, that he can't decide whether or not he'd prefer it to have been by people he's close to, who  _trust_ him, or by someone who doesn't really care.

He's definitely not pretentious. He's pretty sure he's not, anyway, though it coming from him probably isn't the most reliable of sources. His childhood was spent under the watchful eyes of the world, and in the earlier years of his life, all anyone could really care about was George Kirk's son growing up. He'd learned the absolutely wonderful ability of bullshitting around and not answering any questions. The reporters knew shit about the fact that Jim and his family were people too. Others who dropped in to express their condolences didn't really feel sorry because it wasn't one of their own family. Jim wasn't obligated to answer to any of them, especially not when the subject came to his father each and every time.

It made sense to Jim that there were things they didn't want broadcasting to the planet, but it didn't seem to help when the media was hounding the door every year the anniversary of George Kirk's heroic sacrifice. Even now, the shit's the same deal. They want to either make George Kirk's name white or black, and while it  _shouldn't_  matter to Jim pretty much because he doesn't know his old man--who he really was, whether or not he would've liked him--it kind of  _does_ , all the same; because no matter where he goes, George Kirk's name will follow him.

Those times, he wonders what the man would say if he and Jim could actually talk together.

"Happy Birthday, son. So sorry nobody really wants to remember it except everyone who doesn't matter."

Yeah, it'd probably go something like that, but Jim doesn't care. Really.

As a kid, he's either climbing to the roof of his house or sneaking out of it to explore at night. It's a habit for him to stay awake and wait for Sam's breathing to shallow and any noise from their mother's bedroom to still in silence. Then, he'll slowly slip out of bed, and escape out from the window. He keeps on doing this night after night before he grows old enough to even begin to want to understand why. It's just there, that's all. The sky, the night-time--all for him, just for him, when everyone else is asleep and Jim can smell the air better, taste anticipation of  _something_  on his tongue.

It helps that there's no other person who's going to be awake at 0300 hours unless they're some kind of paranoid--but out here, there's no one else for miles around save his family. The dark's also too dark to be able to pick out familiar faces without the help of a light, so it's just right.

Jim's mom always sleeps in her room, and Sam is always asleep in the room he shares with Jim by that time because Sam can't stay up late for his life. But Jim is awake. He's awake, and no amount of knowledge that school starts tomorrow takes him from what wakes him sharply the instant the sky is clear and the moon (or the moonbase or whatever) is overhead. The world is alive for him at night, and Jim wouldn't give it up.

It's like the last strand of anything that really remotely can be his, especially on his birthday. Without really thinking much of it, Jim takes comfort better alone than with people who'll always think of George Kirk when they see him. Maybe it should hurt, but he's gotten used to it; and if anything, going out at night cheers him up better than anything Sam or his mom could ever do for him.

The connotations his night expeditions have with Starfleet also bring up the question whether or not Jim will follow in his father's footsteps. It's way too early for him to want to deal with it, especially since all he's wanted to ever do is to live his own life and not be in someone's shadow. He won't deny it, though; there's a pull when it's night-time in Iowa, especially from the depths of a darkened night sky all around, and sometimes he entertains the thought that Starfleet might be the place for him.

He thinks of his mom whenever he thinks of Starfleet. That's how those exciting thoughts die and wither into quiet and Jim doesn't think of them any more if he can help it.

There's nothing save for the stars when he looks up ahead, except this near pitch blackness that Jim seems to thrive in. That's where they shine the best, in the night sky. He knows in reality they're larger than he is and so much farther away, but quite frankly, he doesn't care. Something in him aches to be up there, to know what it's like. Imagining himself to be so small in the face of the universe actually makes him excited instead of scared, mouth drying as he stares up above. By the time he realizes it, hours have passed by, and he sneaks back into his room at home, laying there until the sun goes up.

Every time, he falls asleep and it's Sam who wakes him up for school.

Really, Jim's going to be the most selfish bastard on the planet if he can help it. He's not going to let people just decide they can walk all over him and run his life. And he wouldn't like forcing himself into a uniform and giving his life in the name of the Federation. He's not that noble. Jim doesn't do dedication, and he's not that cruel as to make his mother relive George Kirk again. She does it enough whenever she sees him, when her eyes quietly take him in and she doesn't move for a moment; probably thinking to herself that Jim is growing to look like  _him_  everyday. It's bad enough that Jim knows that George Kirk was made for the stars. It's even worse to recognize that maybe he and his father weren't so different after all in their callings.

It might be harder to live up to someone who's your namesake, though. Sam has that problem, and Jim doesn't really know whether either of them has the better deal. It ends up making Sam harsh when judging people, especially when they threaten something Sam's always held close to his heart, but it doesn't make Jim hate George Kirk as much either. Because it's Sam's name, and Jim knows that Sam really loved their dad, it makes it easier to accept that maybe George Kirk really was a good guy and that Jim doesn't really need a reason to hate him (though sometimes he wishes he does).The problem's that Jim thrives under pressure; and Sam inevitably baulks in the face of it. People expect too much, and Jim wishes it wasn't so hard for Sam.

When Frank joins the family, Sam is instantly on guard and Jim doesn't know whose side he should be on. The famous sons of George Kirk having a new father is news that spreads like wildfire, but the two of them are as far from as in love with the idea as Jim's mom is. It's not like they're going to get beaten or told that nobody cares about them. Frank's not that bad when he's not being an utter asshole and pretty much pissing off everyone in the family except the woman he's married to, so Jim doesn't have much of a problem with him--at first.

Probably Frank's not used to being a father, and probably Frank was never meant to be a father. Pretty much everything that comes out of his mouth Sam takes offence to. Sam is ultimately convinced that Frank just wants to get rid of them, replace their father or get in on the fame. Jim thinks it's kind of a big conclusion to leap to, but when Sam argues things, Jim always ends up playing Devil's Advocate. He's gotten good at it too, so good that when Frank plays the last straw, Jim succeeds in pissing off one of the most important people to him and one of the least. Jim's not the best mediator; once he opens up his big mouth, he tends to draw more trouble than he's worth, and that's not the worst thing.

When Frank starts comparing him to his old man, Jim knows it's not going to work out. There's this accusing tone in his voice--and Jim doesn't do well with being accused of  _anything_. He bristles, and he can't help it. Sam notices right away, and Frank does as well.

Shit hits the fan really quickly. Jim doesn't even need to know that Sam's taking the easiest way out. A suitcase, no word of apologies, and Jim asking him what he's doing only not to be answered. Sam slamming the door shut is the the last memory Jim will ever had of him and Frank yelling after him that he doesn't so much give a fuck if Sam is going to leave is really, really,  _really_  what turns Jim against his stepfather. Permanently.

He's not sure whether or not years from now he'll want to know if Sam's alive. He's not sure whether or not he's going to go after him. All he knows is that he's going to be spending more nights outside and that he doesn't want any more in the house that Sam left than he does Frank. It's Frank's fault that his brother's gone. It's Frank's fault that Sam left. It's Frank's stupid fuckhead fault.

Jim's really good at pinning the blame on people. It comes with lack of practice and being so fucking angry that he grabs Frank's car keys without a word when the man's back is turned. He goes to the car with indescribable calm, and counts to three before putting the key in and turning the ignition. When it comes to life in a burst, he releases the break, slams the gas pedal with both his feet, and  _drives._ His heart is pounding in his ears, goading him on, and his fingers are hot and tremble with scarcely contained fury and  _holy shit what am I doing what am I doing_.

It's easy to drive a car. Jim remembers hours spent pouring over them; their designs, everything. Sam didn't have the appreciation, but it's easy. It's not warp theory--it's easy. And it's even easier to nearly go off the cliff with the car.

At the last moment, Jim's heart stops and then  _lurches_. His mind goes crazy with thoughts, such as if this is where it's going to end, or if this is how  _he's_  going to end. If this is going to be the last thing, if it serves Frank right (he should never have joined this family), if it serves Sam right (he shouldn't have left), if it—

He makes a split-second decision and nearly kills himself.

Jim's hands claw frantically as he pulls himself to safety, to solidity, to where the policeman awaits.

"Citizen, what is your name?"

He doesn't even need to hesitate, not with adrenaline pumping through his veins. His mouth blazes out words he'll never be ashamed of.

"My name is James Tiberius Kirk," he says, and his is body is already steeling itself in a  _come on, I dare you_.

That incident marks his first arrest. It most certainly isn't been the last. But that's where and when Jim decides that it's not going to be him. He isn't going to be a little selfish shit that's going to go nearly killing himself just for self-satisfaction. It's not worth it. Not for Sam, not for Frank. It's not worth it.

Jim learns that there are a lot of things that aren't worth it. It kind of sucks and he grows up with it. He doesn't understand and doesn't care to find out exactly what was in Sam's head. If he's going to be spending his whole life hating someone, it's not going to be the brother who spent their entire childhood teaching him exactly how to aim, piss, and hit and other less useful things such as giving him unlimited access to his PADDs when he wasn't using them for school. And it's not going to be Frank, because Frank doesn't deserve it and Jim is content to leave it be if Frank leaves him be. Pretty much all Jim knows, really, is that even though it's pretty obvious that Sam ran only because he didn't want to hear another word, from Frank or from Jim, is that his brother's a coward.

In a way, he's glad that Sam's done what he's done. Not because Jim's a martyr, and not because Jim thinks Frank is the shit (because he's not), but because he knows that if the two of them were to get into their own fights, it'd be Sam to take the hits wordlessly but be completely unable to express himself unless he does it directly, but it'd be Jim to spit it back in their faces and get them to try to strangle him to death with knowing instinctively which buttons to press. Blood is still thicker than water. Jim knows it is, so he doesn't blame Sam at all.

Years pass, and Jim gets into trouble with the law, with the police, and with everyone living in Riverside, Iowa. He's not proud of it; his reputation as a rowdy and impulsive delinquent is something he knows loud and clear. But at the same time, he doesn't need anyone to remind him of things he already knows. He doesn't need anyone to remind him of  _what could've been_  or  _what should've_   _been._ He lives knowing it.

There's not a single day when Jim doesn't look in the mirror and see George Kirk for a second. It's especially true as he gets older. When he recognizes that they have the same jaw line, the same nose, and the same everything, it's never  _not_  in his head that George Kirk probably didn't find himself with so many black marks on his record as Jim's.

He hates himself once in a while. Hates his face, hates his circumstances, hates the world, and wishes he'd been born someone else. Sometimes, he wonders what life would've been like, had George Kirk stayed alive, had that Romulan ship not appeared out of nowhere, had Jim been born anywhere but space. Maybe Sam would still be here. Maybe his mom wouldn't have been out so much. Maybe Frank wouldn't have tried to get into their lives. And maybe, Jim would actually be proud to be told he resembles his father, instead of flinching every single time.

Sometimes, he thinks that maybe George Kirk had blue eyes too, but it's an irrelevant, sappy detail, and Jim doesn't know what the hell he wants when he stares at this face in the mirror, or what he hopes to achieve.

What does he want?

True, he already  _knows_  what his old man's done. He's read up on it, and if it doesn't make George Kirk feel so much more distant like a historical figure back in the 21st century instead of his father, Jim still has all those holo-vids and PADDs in his apartment, packed away in a box under the bed and gathering dust because he can't bear to part with any of it.

Even if he throws away concerns similarly to how he interacts with people, it'll always come back when he lets his guard down. He'll have lucid dreams about being in the stars, the Captain's chair underneath him, his crew around him, and the wide expanses of space as far as the eye can see. He'll have experiences in those dreams where he just  _knows_  how and when to fight or retreat, where people actually look up to him instead of down.

It doesn't help that it's kind of a big thing. Jim's used to a couple of bar fights by this time at age twenty-three. Yes, it kind of bites when this gorgeous woman walks in, rejects you, and four of a Cadet posse lead by a Cupcake go on and just really don't mind their business. Jim's pretty much inclined to go for a Fuck You at some point (and it legitimately warrants capitalized letters), because he's stubborn as shit, but Pike plays to win. Which, kind of doesn't work seeing as Jim plays all games to win too. Plus, bringing up the fact that he's a genius going to waste in a Midwest town like this does   _wonders_   for recruitment, he's sure.

So maybe that's why, when Pike brings it up, he actually repeats "Starfleet" as though trying to understand and digest the idea, before cutting himself off with an disbelieving snicker because it's not going to happen.

What really hits him hard are Pike's last parting words.

"I dare you to do better."

It's amateur at best, but it does its job.

Jim considers it. As in, actually considers it.

He considers it. Again. Then again. Then again. He considers it long after the conversation's taken place. He considers it long after he's left the bar. He considers it long after he's cleaned himself up, taken a shower, and lies on his bed staring at the ceiling.

What do you do if you're given a chance you're not sure what to think of? A chance you've never known beforehand that you'd been waiting for?

Jim isn't even sure if this is allowed, him trying to challenge his old man's legacy. The idea appeals to him, no doubt about it, but the fact that he's never even remotely entertained this option annoys him.

He gets up, goes to the bathroom, and stares at himself in the mirror. He wonders, contemplates, imagines. He goes back to the bed, lies down, and stares at the ceiling again.

The cycle continues like a washing machine at a Laundromat. Starting and stopping only to have things pulled out, and other stuff put back in.

In the end, Jim's pretty sure he doesn't really care about whether or not this is normally done, just that he is all for being unorthodox as fuck.

So that's why, when the next morning comes, he decides to go.

As he rides on her, it's sort of like a farewell. Even if the motorcycle is Jim's pet project, and she's always been his favourite, there's not much he can do. She's beautiful, perfect and he knows her engine better than the purr she makes when he revs her (it's totally a purr), she'll have to go. There's no way he can bring her on the shuttle. Sure, there are benefits with staying with her. She's seen him through thick and thin, ever since he saw her in a window and decided right then and there he had to have her, take her apart, and put her back together to make her even better for another round on the road.

But "the road"? That's just the thing; she doesn't hold the allure that the promise of space does, that Jim's pretty sure would satisfy him a lot more than upgrading her or working on her. The wind whipping by as the two of them go impossible speeds will never be comparable to warp speed. The thrill of her being his will never be comparable to a lady starship.

Jim doesn't give a second thought about things once something new has got his interest. He's uncommitted that way, but it's suited him fine all these years. He hands his sweetheart off to some guy who probably doesn't even know the difference between a clutch and a crankshaft, tossing the keys over as if he wasn't giving up something precious.

Pike looks genuinely pleased to see him. Jim grins.

"Four years?" he asks. "I'm going to do it in three."

Jim's not looking to change for anybody. He's still that obstinate little shit who everyone wants to strangle because he won't shut up or points out the things that nobody wants pointed out. But he's not going to conform to anything Starfleet wants him to be like; his old man didn't believe in no-win scenarios. Jim's nothing like him because he isn't him, but that doesn't mean that he isn't going to find a sliver of George Kirk in himself once in a while, and feel nothing but anticipation at the challenge.

_I dare you to do better._

__Okay. So he'll be honest with himself. He's not looking to play "REPRESENT IOWA" any time soon, but it doesn't mean he forgets where he's from, and who he really is. Doesn't matter if it's Starfleet, doesn't matter if it's Riverside. He was always born to make trouble. While it's not the _really bad_  kind of trouble he's looking at, by the time he's done with Starfleet Academy, he's going to be a tough act to follow.

Bones, his new best friend (Jim has decided this in the span of three seconds since the man was forced to sit down), is pretty much confirming the decision he's made is right when he promptly says, "I might throw up on you."

It's practically a guarantee. Jim can hardly wait.

Shit is going to be sofucking  _awesome_.


End file.
